‘Still alive then?’ said the reaver.
‘Just about,’ agreed Alathenar. ‘What was that about?’
‘The fool wants to run the horses down to Ellyrion, but I told him we need them here.’
‘For when we have to abandon this place and run,’ finished Alathenar.
‘Just so.’
‘So you are not hopeful that we’ll hold.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Are you?’ countered Eloien.
‘We may yet.’
‘Don’t be naïve, my friend. Look at the faces around you. The warriors are exhausted, leaderless and, worse, they have no hope.’
They walked over to a bench carved into the base of the Eagle Tower and sat in companionable silence for a few restful minutes to gather their strength. So far, the enemy had displayed an unwillingness to attack at night, content with burning corpses and chanting praises to the Dark Gods, but both warriors knew it was just a matter of time until such a ruse was attempted.
Eloien glanced up at the tall spike of the Aquila Spire. Yellow light seeped from the edges of the shuttered windows.
‘Do you think he is ever going to come out of there?’ asked the reaver.
‘I don’t know. I wish Cerion still commanded.’
‘He was a good warrior?’
‘One of the best,’ nodded Alathenar. ‘Knew when to keep to the rules and when to bend them. He had the heart of a Chracian lion, though he took a druchii blade to the face and never got his looks back.’
Alathenar jerked his thumb at the rearing length of the wall and said, ‘He would have seen this rabble off in no time, but Glorien…’
‘Is an idiot,’ said Eloien, ‘a noble born fool who wouldn’t know which end of a sword to hold and will see us all dead before he comes out of that tower. We’d be better off without him. What about his second? I’ve seen him fighting, but what is he like as a leader?’
‘Menethis? More of a follower than a leader, but his heart is good. Why?’
‘No reason, I just wondered if we might not be better off with someone else in charge?’
‘Someone like Menethis?’
‘Maybe, but as you say, he’s not really what you would call leadership material.’
‘Then who were you thinking of?’
‘Don’t be obtuse, Alathenar,’ said Eloien. ‘I’ve seen the way the warriors look to you and take your lead in all things. I’m talking about you.’
‘Me? No… I’m not a leader, don’t talk nonsense.’
‘Nonsense, my friend? Nonsense would be letting Glorien Truecrown’s cowardice lead us to death. Nonsense would be sitting and doing nothing about it.’
‘Be that as it may, Glorien is the commander of the Eagle Gate and there’s nothing we can do about that.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Eloien nodding thoughtfully and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as a warrior Alathenar had not previously noticed emerged from the shadows beside them.
From his intense features and the skilful way he had concealed himself, Alathenar knew him to be one of the Nagarythe, and a shiver of apprehension worked its way down his spine.
‘This is Alanrias,’ said Eloien by way of introduction.
‘I know who he is,’ said Alathenar as Eloien continued.
‘It is time to face up to the truth of our situation, my friend. If Glorien Truecrown remains in command of the Eagle Gate, it will fall. You know that to be true, I can see it in your eyes.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ asked Alathenar, his gaze shifting from Eloien to the Shadow Warrior.
‘You know what we are suggesting,’ hissed Alanrias.
‘This is sedition,’ said Alathenar, rising to his feet. ‘I could be executed just for hearing this.’
Eloien rose with him and said. ‘You know I’m right, Alathenar.’
He took a deep breath. ‘I will think on what you have said.’
The coarse, braying note of a tribal horn sounded from beyond the wall, echoing from the valley sides and warriors began hurrying to the battlements.
‘Don’t think for too long,’ advised Eloien.
The storm had passed and the sea at the gates of Lothern was calm once more.
Smashed timbers and the dead bodies as yet untouched by sharks floated on the surface in sad bobbing clumps of defeat. Barely a handful of elven vessels had managed to escape into the sanctuary of the Straits of Lothern, the rest now little more than wreckage and grief.
The defenders of the Emerald Gate could only watch in impotent horror as the druchii fleet landed its surviving troop galleys on the island of the Glittering Lighthouse, its beacon extinguished and its walls home to the victorious warriors of Naggaroth. The Eagle ships had destroyed a great many of the troop galleys, but the returning vanguard of the druchii fleet had attacked without mercy and the slaughter had been tremendous.
Not a single Eagle ship survived the night and the druchii now had control of the ocean before the gates of Lothern. Sleek and deadly Raven ships patrolled the sea around the island of the lighthouse, alert for any counterattack and taking care to remain beyond the range of the Emerald Gate’s war machines. Hulking galleys hove to alongside the island of the lighthouse in grim procession and thousands of dark-cloaked warriors marched from the packed holds with their spears glinting.
As each vessel was emptied, it would sail around the southern coast of the island to join a growing line of wide-bodied ships anchored side-by-side to form a great bridge between the island of the lighthouse and Ulthuan. Thick hawsers were lashed between the galleys and anchored to the land at either end.
Atop the ruined peak of the lighthouse, the armoured form of the Witch King sat astride his mighty dragon, Seraphon, and watched the labours below with grim satisfaction. Hundreds of warriors garrisoned the captured fortifications of the island and thousands more were disembarking from the galleys in preparation of marching on Ulthuan itself.
The Witch King knew that attacking the Emerald Gate from the sea was as close to impossible as made no difference, but if the fortresses guarding the shoulder haunches of the arching fortress could be taken…
The great, black-scaled dragon leapt from the ruined lighthouse and spread its midnight wings as it swooped down over the island with a bellowing roar of challenge.
Chapter Nineteen
Awakenings
Of all the music and beauty Caelir could remember, none came close to matching those of the court of the Everqueen. He reclined on soft, autumn leaves and watched Lilani dance to the music and song of Narentir. The sound of silver bells chimed in the distance and a crowd had gathered beneath colourful silken pavilions to watch Lilani’s performance.
Her movements were sinuous and graceful, but Caelir saw a harsh, aggressive vigour to her movements now, the muscles bunching and swelling beneath her glittering skin. At first he had wondered why the softness had disappeared, but then saw one of the Everqueen’s Handmaidens among the appreciative spectators.
Like Lilani, the Handmaiden was slender and taut, but unlike the dancer, she wore a form-fitting breastplate of gold and carried a long spear. A scarlet plume, the same colour as her cloak, swept down the back of her helmet and a bone coloured longbow was slung across her shoulder.
The Handmaidens of the Everqueen were not mere courtiers, but warriors the equal of any elven knight with bow, spear or sword. Chosen from the best dancers, singer, poets and lovers of Ulthuan, the Handmaidens epitomised the pinnacle of achievement in elven society with their mastery of both the courtly and martial arts. Caelir cast an appreciative eye over the Handmaiden, taking in her long bare legs and the moulded physique of her breastplate.
Watching Lilani dance, he now understood her reasons for seeking out the court of the Everqueen and saw they were little different from Narentir’s.
He smiled to himself as he closed his eyes and let the sensations of the forest wash over him. To perform in the court of the Everqueen! Such things were the dreams of
every elf of Ulthuan.
Musicians and singers trained all their life to be worthy of playing in Avelorn and the youths of Ulthuan dreamed of becoming a consort of the Everqueen while the maids aspired to become one of her Handmaidens.
Life in Avelorn was like living in an eternal festival, decided Caelir. They had been here for a few days now and, at every turn, musicians delighted audiences, dancers made play in the forest and poets recited their latest works.
The days were magical and the nights scarcely less so.
Ghostly light filled the court at night and glittering sprites darted from tree to tree to light the wondrous folk of the forest as they created art and beauty with every breath. Gaily coloured pavilions were pitched randomly through the forest and all manner of elves from all across Ulthuan came to play and make merry in the forest of the Everqueen.
Despite himself, Caelir had been caught up in the spirit of Avelorn and slipped into an easy routine of player and spectator. By day he would sing to steadily growing crowds of admirers and by night he would walk the moonlit paths of the forest with Lilani and make love beneath the stars on a bed of golden leaves.
Thus far Caelir had seen no sign of the ruler of Avelorn, but Narentir assured him that the Everqueen rarely ventured openly among the court until she knew whom she would choose to accompany her glorious cavalcade through the forest realm.
The urgency that had driven him to seek the Everqueen had all but vanished, his anguish smothered by the healing magic of Avelorn. The imperative to see her arose powerfully with every dawn, beating its fists against the walls of his mind, but the soothing balms of the forest’s music and light soon eased his troubled brow and the day would go on as before.
The sound of rapturous applause signalled the end of Lilani’s dance and Caelir opened his eyes to see her perched on the low branches of a sunwood tree, her chest heaving and her hair unbound and wild.
Caelir joined in with the applause as she bowed deeply to her audience and somersaulted from the tree. The gathered elves moved on swiftly, their butterfly interest already anticipating the delights the rest of the forest had to offer. Narentir went with them, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers and Caelir smiled to himself as Lilani danced over and lay down next to him.
‘Did you see?’ she asked breathlessly, draping herself across his chest. Her skin glowed golden and he leaned down to kiss her.
She tasted of wild berries and her breath was hot in his mouth.
‘I did, you were exquisite as always.’
‘Liar,’ she said. ‘You were asleep. I saw.’
‘No, I was awake,’ he said.
‘Then why didn’t you watch me?’
‘You weren’t performing for me,’ he said. ‘I saw the Handmaiden in the audience.’
‘I think she was impressed. Perhaps she will speak of me to the Everqueen,’ said Lilani, her words coming out in a rush. Caelir smiled at this youthful, insecure side of Lilani, finding it an entertaining change from the confident aloofness she usually affected.
Such insecurity was understandable, for, as Caelir was quickly learning, the forest of the Everqueen was a seething hotbed of ego and intrigue, where every performer vied for the favour of the Everqueen and the chance of a place at her side.
To be chosen as a consort or Handmaiden was the highest honour imaginable for a youth of Ulthuan, but those whose artistry failed to impress the fickle inhabitants of the forest soon found themselves objects of ridicule.
Only the previous day, Caelir, Lilani and Narentir had watched a pair of singers perform in a sun-dappled glade. He had thought their voices magnificent, soaring into the treetops and entwining like lovers as the notes fell back to earth in a rain of flowers. He had found himself alone in applauding them and quickly stopped as he felt disapproving stares upon him.
A tall noble in a long robe of shimmering teal had stepped from the audience and bowed to the singers. ‘Congratulations,’ he had said. ‘The Keeper of Souls must weep to know that one of her own has fallen from the heavens to entertain us with song. Truly it is said that anything too prosaic to be said is sung instead.’
The crowd had dispersed with ringing laughter and Caelir saw the light of joy flee from the singers’ eyes at the comment, though he had been mystified as to why.
‘My dear boy,’ explained Narentir later. ‘In Avelorn excellence is the very least that is expected of a performer. And while the caterwauling of those two so-called singers might impress the rustics of Chrace, it was hardly of the standard required here.’
‘But that noble congratulated them.’
Narentir shook his head. ‘You must learn that many of the quips directed at a performer, while appearing to be congratulatory, conceal deadly barbs.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That noble compared their singing to the wailing of Morai-heg’s banshees,’ said Lilani.
He realised he was being spoken to and shook off thoughts of the previous day.
‘Can you feel that?’ said Lilani. ‘Something’s happening…’
He looked up, seeing the same leafy canopy of brilliant green and radiant summer sky beyond it. White birds perched in the treetops and their song trilled pleasingly. Nearby performers smiled and hugged one another, their faces alight as a subtle vibration raced through the air, a burgeoning sense of anticipation and excitement left in the wake of its passing.
Caelir leaped to his feet as the vibration surged through him, inexplicably invigorated by this strange sensation sweeping the forest.
‘What is this?’ he cried.
His question was answered when Narentir danced back into the clearing and swept them both into a crushing embrace, his eyes bright with tears of joy. ‘Do you feel it?’ he wept.
‘We do!’ nodded Lilani.
Seeing Caelir’s confusion, Narentir laughed and said, ‘The Everqueen, dear boy. She walks among us at the dawn!’
Asperon Khitain drew his sword, a weapon crafted in the forges of Hag Graef and quenched in the blood of slaves. His armour was the colour of bloodwine, fresh from the vine and his long dark hair was bound in a trailing scalp lock.
His warriors formed up around him, a hundred hardened fighters in long mail coats and lacquered breastplates that gleamed like the oily waters of Clar Karond. Long, plum-coloured cloaks hung from their shoulders and those few who did not carry long, ebony hafted spears helped carry scaling ladders.
As the glorious standard of House Khitain was raised high, he felt a thrill of anticipation and knelt to take a handful of the coarse, powdery stone of the ground he stood upon.
To have sailed across the Great Ocean and set foot once more on Ulthuan…
The mountains reared up above him and the sun bathed everything in a warm glow that made his skin itch. He remembered the last time he had fought in the land of his ancestors, pillaging and killing through the green forests of northern Ulthuan, hunting down the queen witch through the blazing ruin of her realm. The invasion had stalled when her protector had rescued her and Asperon shivered as he recalled the fury of the golden armoured warrior cutting down scores of the greatest druchii warriors in their escape.
Such a blademaster came but once in an age and Asperon cut his palm open as an offering to Khaine, mixing the welling red liquid with the dust of Ulthuan. He stood and climbed onto a nearby boulder to better see the preparations for the assault on the Emerald Gate.
Thousands of druchii warriors had crossed the great bridge of galleys from the island of the lighthouse and now marched along the overgrown pathways that crisscrossed the coastline. Perhaps these had once been the route of the long dead builders of the lighthouse or a neglected patrol route, but Asperon did not care what purpose they might once have served. Now they allowed the army of the Witch King to march into the mountains and lay siege to the shoulders of the first sea gate of Lothern.
Forests of speartips and lances glittered and Asperon watched as great war machines were unloaded from the troop galle
ys and carried onto the mainland by sweating, straining slaves. A host was being assembled that would sweep over the Emerald Gate and allow them to push the Asur back along the Straits of Lothern.
As he watched, a red banner was unfurled upon the peak of the captured lighthouse and he grinned wolfishly as he leapt down to rejoin his warriors. The signal soon passed to every warrior in the army and a predatory hunger for slaughter swept through Asperon.
‘Warriors of Naggaroth!’ he cried, his noble voice easily carrying across the mountains to his soldiers. ‘Today we bathe our blades in the blood of the Asur! We march on their fortress and we will not stop until the banner of House Khitain flies above its ruins!’
A hundred spear shafts hammered on the white rock of the mountains and Asperon took his place within the ranks of his warriors. A great chorus of horn blasts sounded from the assembled army and echoed from the mountains like the bloody fury of Khaine himself.
He raised his sword above his head and shouted, ‘Onwards!’
With disciplined steps, he and his warriors set off up the slopes of the mountains, their strides long and sure. The ground was rough, but far easier than the rugged harshness of the Iron Mountains around Hag Graef where he relentlessly drilled his soldiers. Compared to the harsh climate and terrain his warriors trained on, this was easy going.
Their mile-eating stride carried them swiftly up the rocky slopes, the hard packed earth of the wide paths overgrown and partially obscured, but providing a swift route up the mountains. The occasional flurry of arrows flashed from above as cloaked scouts loosed shafts from hiding and screams of pain swiftly followed.
The shock of the lighthouse’s capture and the crushing defeat of their fleet had paralysed the Asur into inaction and the pathways through the mountains were only lightly defended. Small groups of their own scouts darted forwards and soon the rain of arrows halted and Asperon heard sounds of vicious struggles from above.
At last he could see the crest of the ridgeline above him and briefly halted their advance on the rocky plateau to redress the ranks that had become ragged on the climb. Ahead, a gentle slope led towards the eastern flank of the Emerald Gate and Asperon felt his blood surge as he saw what lay before them.
Defenders of Ulthuan Page 30
